


Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

by sanitysrebellion



Series: The Intricacies of Time [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Please Don't Make Me Tag All the Death Eaters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanitysrebellion/pseuds/sanitysrebellion
Summary: Second chances were marvelous things. Second chances meant a new start, or forgiveness, or self-growth. Second chances meant becoming a better person or learning from past mistakes. Second chances were not supposed to mean reliving one’s life with an overpowering sense of déjà vu and impending dread, yet here she was.





	1. Once More With Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miramei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miramei/gifts).



At age seven Persephone Weaver was struck with the very odd sensation that this was all very familiar to her. In fact, she had a memory of sitting in this very room at this very age. It was fuzzy and warped, the way memories got as years went by but it was most certainly just that- a memory. Her mother had walked in from the other room to catch her with a snack she wasn’t supposed to have and forbade her from having dessert that night.

The snack she was currently holding in her hand. 

Persephone frowned and considered the cookie in her hand. It had been quite difficult to get in the span of time it took for her mother to disappear outside to tend to the garden. It had involved a kitchen chair and more than a little convincing to get the cookie jar at the top of the refrigerator to come to her then return to it’s proper spot once her stolen snack had been acquired. It was not something she had attempted before, convincing inanimate objects to listen to her. Stolen cookies, after all, were the reason the jar had been moved so high.

Yet here was a memory telling her that her efforts were all for naught. A memory that shouldn’t yet exist or perhaps not exist at all, she originally had plans to eat the cookie. Her mouth pressed into a thin line as she eyed the baked good. It provided no answers, the chocolate chips only began to melt under her fingers.

Persephone was too perplexed by the memory-that-had-yet-to-occur to eat her hard-won prize and was promptly caught by her mother. She had tossed the cookie the moment she had heard the door open but the chocolate on her fingers and the family cat only licked the cookie instead of eating the evidence like a proper pet.

From that day on Persephone considered her memories more carefully. There was one from when she was perhaps four and had used a pair of scissors to cut her long mahogany hair from her face and then promptly burst into tears when she saw herself in the mirror. Only that wasn’t how it had happened. Instead she had used her grandfather’s wand and burnt herself. She had the scar on the top of her right ear to prove it.

She could remember late nights in the large and expansive library at Hogwarts, surrounded by the smell of ink and parchment, old books, and the tea she had smuggled in. Of watching the ceiling of the Great Hall turn from sunset to star speckled sky while drinking pumpkin juice. Of first kisses in empty hallways and crying in the greenhouse.

But she was seven and none of these things had happened- could not have happened. They felt real and Persephone could recall a number of details, but it was impossible that any of these memories could have happened. She was seven and Hogwarts was four entire years away. Though she would dream of the Hogwarts Express and some days, in the early hours before sleep left her, Persephone would recall lists of tasks for the day no seven year old would be responsible for. She would think of a life she did not have.

Sunlight filtered through the large windows on the living room. Persephone laid stretched out on her stomach in one particularly strong beam of sunshine, legs kicking idly behind her as she scribbled on sheets of paper with markers. The family cat walked directly across her papers, not caring at all if he kicked the markers out of her reach, and lept up on the windowbox seat to nap.

Persephone frowned as the yellow marker- the perfect color for Hufflepuff ties and drapery, thank you very much- rolled under the couch and out of sight. “You know, the last time I was seven we had an owl instead and I dare say I liked him better than you, Franklin.”

The black and white cat opened one amber eye to stare at the little girl for a long moment, then yawned. Franklin, it seemed, did not care one bit what sort of pets she preferred as long as it didn’t interrupt his nap.

“Wait,” Persephone paused, turning her words over in her mind. Felt the shape of them on her tongue. She knew _ what _ she had said, it had seemed perfectly natural in the instant she had spoken them, but not  _ why _ she had said those words. “What?”

The gears of her mind that clicked into place did not form the conclusion that she had a knack for Divination. Instead the realization dawned, bright and clear as the afternoon sun surrounding her, that she had done this all before.

And that revelation scared her more than knowledge of the future ever could.


	2. To Start Again

The morning of August 1, 1971 dawned bright and warm. Persephone opened her eyes at almost the exact moment the sunlight wormed its beams through the slats of the blinds and touched her freckled face. She kicked herself free of her sheets and shuffled across the bed to her window. Tiny hands grasped the cord and with one swift motion she pulled open the blinds and squinted into the sunshine of her eleventh birthday. Persephone blinked several times to adjust her vision and frowned.

The same small cul-de-sac with the same similarly shaped houses and neatly trimmed lawns. The same bright white picket fences. The same neighbors small and yappy dog barking at the mailbox.

Absolutely no owls to be seen on any roofs or in any nearby trees. Persephone huffed, irritated. A quick glance at her bedside clock told her it was exactly 8:00 am. Too early for post but with exactly one month until the start of term Persephone had expected the school to be exceptionally punctual. And it wasn’t as if owls held the same hours as muggle mailmen.

The girl swung her legs over the side of her bed, dropping her bare feet onto the cool wood of her bedroom floor. If the post wasn’t going to arrive on her whims then she might as well get breakfast. Before leaving the room Persephone paused at her dresser where she pulled from the top drawer a pair of socks. There was a moment of awkward balancing as she stepped into them and wiggled her toes for good measure. Satisfied, the girl opened her bedroom door and padded down the stairs to the kitchen.

The radio playing softly and the smell of eggs and bacon cooking signaled that her mother was already awake and making breakfast. As if on cue the tea kettle whistled as Persephone entered the kitchen and she smiled.

“Good morning,” Prospertine greeted as her daughter took her seat at the table. The woman took the kettle from the stove, pouring a cup. The kettle was returned to the stove and Prospertine turned to place the teacup beside her daughter. “Happy birthday.”

Her mother kissed her forehead before turning back to the stove to save the eggs from being burned. Persephone hummed her thanks and stirred sugar into her tea, watching the sugarcubes disappear. The girl blew on her tea a few times before lifting the cup to her lips and taking a drink. She winced, burning her tongue, and returned the cup to the table to cool.

“What time does the post arrive? We’re still getting _the Prophet_ , aren’t we?” Persephone asked, gently pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth to test the burn. The muggle system, at least, had organized times and didn’t rely on the whims of birds. “Would it arrive with the paper?”

Her mother glanced back over her shoulder as she scooped large portions of the eggs onto plates. “Did you order something from my catalogues without asking again?”

“I’m eleven,” the girl replied as if the answer should be obvious. “There’s still time to get my Hogwarts letter before the start of this term.”

Propsertine paused, spatula dangling eggs precariously between pan and floor. Franklin padded through the room, bell on his collar jingling happily as he wound his way through the woman’s legs on the way to his food dish. The sound or the feeling of fur on her ankles jarred her mother free from her thoughts and Prospertine gently lowered the spatula and pan to the stovetop.

“Oh, Percy,” her voice was the soothing balm saved for falls from trees, or fights with the neighborhood kids, or chasing away nightmares. Persephone frowned and decided she didn’t like where this conversation was now going. “You know that might not happen.”

_Well, that’s just not going to do at all_ , the girl thought, squaring her shoulders in the defiant way of children facing an unwanted reality.

“I don’t see why not,” Persephone’s eyes moved from her mother’s face- that sad, comforting smile as if the woman would wrestle the world with her bare hands for her daughter’s future, but knew this was beyond even her reach. “I have magic.”

Prospertine gently smoothed down her daughter’s bedhead and silently prayed to whatever might be listening that she wouldn’t have to watch her child’s heart break on her birthday. “Your grandfather was an excellent wizard. Spellwork came as easy as breathing to him. I…” she hesitated and Persephone was acutely aware of how her mother’s voice wavered. “Well, you might still take after him.”

Persephone’s shoulders dropped, defiance of her situation crumbling under her mother’s quiet guilt. She thought of her mother, the same age Persephone herself was now, excitedly waiting all through her birthday for a letter that would never come. “I’m sorry you couldn’t go.”

Her mother laughed, sounding much more like herself, and hugged her child close. “It’s nothing for you to apologize for.”

Eventually Persephone was released to her breakfast and supplied with a plate of bacon and eggs. She ate diligently but not without moments of listlessly poking at her eggs and turning the situation over in her mind. She had _memories_ of Hogwarts, she couldn’t just _not_ receive her letter. But her mother had gained no magical abilities from her heritage and certain things had played out differently than they had in her old memories.

She felt like a petulant child, even knowing she was eleven, sulky and grasping for something she might not be able to have. Violently hoping for an opportunity never allotted to her mother simply because she thought it should happen.

“Maybe I was a terrible person,” Persephone mumbled against her teacup. “And this is punishment.”

Now properly cooled and no longer at risk of burning her mouth, Persephone quickly drained her tea. She could still taste the sugar on her lips as she tilted the empty cup towards her and searched for shapes in the tea leaves. She knew it wasn’t Divination, these memories of another life lived, and this was no official tea reading but there was little harm in seeing if the tea leaves offered her any answers she wanted to hear. Or, she supposed, to see as the case was.

A squiggly shape of rising and falling lines that could have been a mountain ( _great goals with many difficulties_ ) but that was concerning and the girl would ignore it.

The childish extended ‘w’ of a flying bird ( _good news_ ) and the long ears of a crooked bunny rabbit ( _need for bravery_ ) were much less concerning when seen together, even if they didn’t make a lot of sense that way.

And, at the very bottom of the cup, a lopsided rectangle that could have been an envelope - _arrival of an important letter or document_.

Persephone laughed.

It was late enough in the evening that Persephone was beginning to get antsy all over again, tapping her fingers on the cover of the book she was attempting to read. Franklin was curled up on the couch beside her, purring contently. It was a rare moment, when the cat wasn’t annoyingly standoffish, but the girl couldn’t even enjoy it though her growing anxiety of her missing letter.

She had magic, Persephone knew that much. She had convinced cookie jars to wobble over to her, the flowers she helped to plant always bloomed longer, and she always knew when guests would arrive. But, and the idea sat uncomfortably at the forefront of her mind, Persephone had nothing to gauge it against. What if she had magic but it wasn’t enough to gain her admittance to Hogwarts, no matter what her memories told her?

Persephone knew the story. It had been explained to her several times as she grew closer to this birthday, the age when Wizarding children received their admittance letters. Even if her mother hadn’t taken the time to attempt to soothe a blow that might never come, Persephone knew the story.

Prospertine Weaver had been born the only daughter of the then current head of the Weaver family- a Wizarding family of some higher standing but without the ancient backing behind families such as the Malfoys or Blacks. Prospertine had been a relatively normal child, if slow to show those little oddities found in children with magic. Her father’s wand produced sparks for her but never more, she helped her mother brew potions, and had dreams of playing Quidditch at school. But Prospertine’s eleventh birthday came and went with no owl from Hogwarts. Only the realization that the Weaver heir was a Squib.

Grandpa Weaver had abdicated his position as family head and promptly moved the family to a more Muggle populated neighborhood outside of London. When telling her daughter of this years later Prospertine would like to refer to it as her father’s one great overreaction and laugh. The Weaver family had adjusted, mostly, to the more mundane lifestyle. Prospertine still had a foothold in the magical community, even if she could never grasp the magic herself. She would order rudimentary ingredients from an apothecary and make basic potions in the crockpot, read _the Daily Prophet_ and partake in the owl post, and insist on magical cleaning supplies even if they never worked quite right for her.

She married a Muggle man with a passion for sleight of hand and claimed she had found her own magic.

Persephone held a great respect for her mother, even if she suspected that Prospertine never thought she would have a magically inclined child. Yet here she was. Or, perhaps, she wasn’t as the afternoon was quickly fading into evening and that blasted owl still hadn’t arrived.

“I suppose owls are nocturnal,” the girl huffed, shutting her book with a snap and completely giving up on reading. “But at this rate I don’t want to tip this bird with anything but cheerios.”

A tapping at the kitchen window drew her attention from her muttering. Persephone’s head snapped over to see what was there. The barn owl looked exceptionally displeased, sitting in the windowbox among the petunias and squishing more than a few. Her mother would be upset when she returned from the store. But Persephone wasn’t interested in the petunias, crushed or otherwise. Instead she leapt up from the couch, startling Franklin, and scampered over to the window to open it.

The barn owl hopped inside the kitchen, gave the room an appraising look, and hooted softly. The girl gently took the parchment envelope from the owl’s beak with shaking fingers. The owl looked even more displeased and stepped away from her reaching hand.

“You- what?” Persephone narrowed her eyes as the owl shuffled away from her again. “You’re supposed to give me the letter.”

The owl hooted in response.

The girl frowned and moved over to the stovetop to retrieve the leftover bacon. She might have threatened cheerios earlier but Persephone had an inkling that if she tried the owl would just leave with her letter. She held out the two strips of bacon and the barn owl contemplated them for a long moment before it dropped the letter and snatched the treat. The owl crunched on the bacon, Franklin watching from the doorway with a twitching tail, and Persephone snatched up the letter.

The parchment of the envelope was thick and official, with a fancy wax seal bearing the crest of Hogwarts school in an official looking scarlet wax. Her name had been written on the front with a steady hand in a calligraphic font with a pleasingly dark ink. Despite her familiarity with owl post Persephone couldn’t help but note the lack of stamps and postal markings as strange. As the owl finished it’s bacon treat it hopped back out the window, crushing more petunias on the way out, and departed from the windowbox. Persephone reached absently to close the kitchen window, eyes still focused on the envelope in her hand.

Hogwarts didn’t send rejection letters, did it?

Of course it didn’t, that would be ridiculous. But what if it did? There must have been enough Squibs for there to be related industries and what of magically weak people? There never was much talk of the magically inadequate so she couldn’t begin to guess at their fate. Persephone bit her lip, slipping her fingers under the back flap of the envelope and beginning to tear it open.

The inside parchment pulled free with ease. It was the same official weight of the envelope and, distantly, Persephone wondered how much their paper budget was and if parchment weight was anything similar to cardstock. Franklin came into the kitchen to search for any bacon bits the owl might have left behind. As he past he gave the girl a look that clearly showed he thought she was being ridiculous. But, really, what did cats know about the uncertainty of futures?

Persephone opened the letter one handedly with a practiced flick of her thumb. A skill of dexterity that somehow hadn’t left her when she was, what exactly? Reborn? There were more important things to dwell on than the nebulous vagueries of death and beyond. Brown eyes scanned the first lines of the letter and all of the tension drained from her body at once.

> _Dear Ms. Weaver,_
> 
> _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

Her knees buckled, dropping her heavily onto the cool tile of the kitchen floor. Later in the dark of her room as she laid down for the night she would feel guilty for her overwhelming relief, for having the chance her mother never could. But in this moment in the middle of her kitchen, with the cat looking at her as if she had lost her mind, Persephone held her acceptance letter as if it were the most important thing in the world.

 

* * *

 

“I just don’t know what we’re going to do,” Prospertine fussed as she pulled her daughter along by the hand, navigating the busy London streets. “We never even got you a proper trunk. And they won’t let you take your luggage set because, oh I don’t know, aesthetics. We should have waited for your father to get home so he could carry all the heavy things.”

Mother and daughter moved down the crowded walkways with purpose, passing by restaurants and bookstores, a rundown looking deli with a note on the door that said it had been bought out by record shop of all things. Across the street there was a brightly colored cupcake shop that Persephone would need to visit, once the allure of school shopping.

Excited over school shopping. The thought was almost amusing, a small child excitedly looking forward to picking out quills and ink (why couldn’t they just use _pens_?) or parchment (would it smell like old books?) but here she was practically bouncing in her shoes. Persephone had been fairly far removed from Wizarding economics; the conversion rate was lost to her, though she supposed her mother would have access to the Weaver vault. Or, at least, to Grandfather’s vault. Her preferences on certain supplies would be still beyond her, largely due to being eleven, no matter how much money sat cloistered in the bank.

Persephone sighed inwardly and thought of the sealing wax that looked like stars on a night sky or the iridescent feathers of a peacock and resigned herself to several years of boring stationary.

“Honestly,” Prospertine tsked and for a moment Persephone wondered if her mother was reading her mind. Instead the woman’s ire was directed at the shabby storefront before them. Only it wasn’t a storefront, not technically. “Making me take my child into a pub.”

  
“We could’ve taken the Floo?” Persephone offered, perhaps a little too belatedly.

As she watched, her mother’s face cycled through several different emotions before finally settling on a sort of resigned grumpiness. “A note for next year, then. But we’re already here and I suppose it won’t hurt for you to know the Muggle side entrance.”

Prospertine adjusted her hold on her daughter’s hand, as if she half expected to lose her inside. “Don’t talk to anyone in the bar, please.”

The bell above the door jingled in a deceptively cheery way, in sharp contradiction to the grey interior of the place. Most of the tables still had the chairs stacked on top, likely due to the early hour. Aside from the lone bartender behind the counter, absently cleaning the glasses, there were three other people scattered about the room. Persephone noted that they seemed to be drinking tea. Overnight boarders, maybe?

Her mother pulled her along through the poorly lit pub with more determination than Persephone thought was entirely necessary. Prospertine had squared herself up as if she were expecting to get into an early morning brawl. The bartender glanced up from his uninterested cleaning to frown at mother and daughter. “No kids, lady. This is a respectable like establishment.”

“Yes, well,” Prospertine began, not breaking eye contact with the man. “If you’d be so kind as to open the back door for us, we’ll be out of your hair.”

The bartender’s frown increased as he appraised the two. His quick glance to the bell above the door made Persephone wonder if it was charmed to help repel the non-magical. “We don’t have a back door.”

If Proseprtine Weaver had one vice it was respect; nothing could flare her subtle temper more than the lack of what she thought herself due. The woman’s eyes flashed and her grip on Persephone’s hand tightened subconsciously. “Is that so?”

“That’s so,” the man replied, sealing his fate.

Her mother hummed, a short low noise, as she released her hand. “Be a good girl now, Percy, and wait for us out back. This will only take a moment.”

“Now hold up, lady-”

Persephone didn’t linger to see what became of the bartender. She already knew the spot along the brick wall they needed; knew how to open it, though she lacked the wand to do so. Persephone followed the not-quite-familiar route from memory and stepped back out into the air of the morning. It smelled less pleasant back here, with the row of trashcans along the building’s wall. Persephone ignored the smell, stepping toward the expanse of drab brickwork keeping her from her shopping.

Experimentally the girl prodded at the bricks with a fingertip.

The wall remained a wall.

She frowned, but hadn’t expected much else.

Her mother marched through the pub’s back door- the literal, physical one- the way Persephone imagined the winning Quidditch players walked off the pitch. Prospertine smiled her usual friendly smile, only the fire in her eyes the remaining sign of her anger. Over her mother’s shoulder the bartender looked less friendly, but resigned to his task.

“Always remember, Percy,” Prospertine began as she once again took her daughter’s hand and the two of them stepped through the magical opening in the wall behind the Leaky Cauldron. The bartender sniffed past a bloody nose and made a gesture as if he were holding open a physical door as they passed. “Everyone deserves your respect but you, in turn, deserve theirs. If they refuse to give it to you, remind them.”

Diagon Alley was the same as she remembered it to be, it would stay largely untouched by the passing of time, but lacking the eventual and garishly bright Weasley storefront. _Soon_ , the space the joke store would occupy seemed to whisper, _soon but not yet._ Persephone wondered if that was a sort of threat to the peaceful alley.

“I suppose we should go to Gringotts before anything,” Prospertine mused aloud as the wall closed behind them, once again solid and ugly brick. “Then we can start on your school list with-”

“Ollivander's!” Persephone interrupted. “We should start there.”

“I think,” her mother began, amusement in her voice, “that should be for last. A wand is a very important thing, after all.”

There was an instant where Persephone wanted to argue like the eleven year old child she was but the knowledge that she was experiencing something her mother never could held her tongue. The girl went quiet, feeling guilt settle heavy in the pit of her stomach.

“Come now, none of that.” Prospertine frowned as if she could read her daughter’s mind, hand reaching out to pinch her cheek. “This is a _gift_ , Persephone. It’s nothing for you to feel guilty over. I wouldn’t take this from you if I could. You deserve nothing less than Hogwarts.”

Persephone scrunched her face as her mother gently tugged on the cheek for good measure.

 

* * *

 

Ollivander’s still smelled the way Persephone remembered it, as if that was a normal way to judge the passage of time. All kinds of wood- some stronger than others if the wandmaker had been crafting, the polish and tint, and the faint lingerings of dust in the far corners of the building. It was somehow familiar despite Persephone only ever having been in the shop once, another lifetime ago.

“Well, hello,” the old wandmaker smiled kindly, his eyes crinkling as the bell above the door jingled. “Another young witch ready to start her school years, is it?”

“Yes!” Persephone answered, perhaps a little too quickly if her mother’s stifled laughter was any indication.

Persephone could remember her wand the way any wizard or witch worth their salt could: the weight of it in her hand, the feeling of the wood against her fingers, and the carvings along the handle. It had been English Oak, Unicorn hair, and just the right rigidness for poking people in the sides when trying to navigate crowded hallways to class or mealtimes. She had missed it.

But that familiar wand never appeared.

There were similar ones, ones that felt right in her hand even- with the familiar woodgrain of English Oak and the gentle shine of the polish. Persephone did her best to ignore the disappointment and worry eating away at her as each wand passed through her hands. Ollivander, genuinely bless his heart, seemed largely unconcerned. He would nod sagely and mutter to himself as he parused the numerous shelves.

Prospertine, ever observant, reached out to tuck her daughter’s mahogany hair from her face. “Your grandfather told me it took him fifteen minutes to find his wand.”

“Ah, yes,” the old wandmaker’s voice was muffled behind the stack of boxes he was searching. “Alaric Weaver.” Ollivander reappeared at the counter, a box tucked carefully in the crook of his arm, and smiled, eyes twinkling over the rim of his glasses. “You look just like him.”

Her mother frowned, but the amusement in her voice ruined the illusion, and the expression never quite reached past the downturn of her lips. “What every young woman wants to hear.”

Ollivander chuckled, the sound warm and light and made him seem much younger, as he set a box on the table before the girl. “Now, let’s try this one.”

The wand in the box, nestled daintily on a red velvet cushion, was carved from a pale wood. Delicate designs were carved along the handle, reaching nearly halfway up the length of the wand. Persephone squinted, leaning closer to investigate. Flower vines, maybe? Or the twisted, reaching branches of a naked forest in winter?

Persephone lifted the wand from it’s velvet lined box with care, trailing her fingertips along the carvings as she adjusted her grip properly. They tingled as they settled along the handle, a subtle sort of static. She could still feel the shape of the words on her tongue, still remember how to cast spells she shouldn’t yet know. There was a childish sort of exhilaration in the urge to show off, but that would require answers Persephone didn’t have.

She waved the wand, a casual swish through the air. The dried flowers, forgotten in a vase in a dusty corner, exploded with a faint _pop_ and a scattering of fresh petals. The shop now smelled faintly of jasmine.

“Yew, dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches,” the wandmaker provided, adjusting his glasses. “How interesting.”

“Interesting,” Persephone repeated, an indefinable feeling settling in her chest.

Her mother hummed thoughtfully behind her, placing a hand to her cheek. “Yew does have something of a reputation..”

But Persephone wasn’t listening. Instead her attention was on the pale wand as she turned it over in her fingers. She had her Hogwarts letter and now her wand, yes, but also not the wand she remembered. The wand she was still certain she could pick out on sight. Instead she held this unfamiliar strip of yew that had answered her so easily.

What did it mean when things were different?


	3. Snake Pit

King’s Cross Station on September 1st was always crowded. Though she could never prove it, and never managed to spot others with trunks on trolleys lingering by walls, Persephone was certain there was a subtle uptick in the number of patrons once the school term began.

“- and if any of the kids give you a hard time, punch them just like I taught you.” Her father was saying, talking too quickly as he stuffed various snacks and candy into her sweater and jacket pockets. “The candy is for making friends, of course, but don’t let any of those rich kids get uppity just because they have fancy sticks. Technically _I_ can do magic too. They’re not special.”

“Noah, dear,” Prospertine began gently, placing a hand on her husband’s arm. “She’ll miss the train”

“I’m not ready!” the American man pulled his daughter close, scattering caramels on the station floor. “Can’t she go next year? Or we can hire a tutor. Those exist, don’t they?”

His wife frowned, the gentle and patient sort mother’s use when dealing with children. “Darling, the time.”

“Well, I don’t see why she can’t call,” Noah argued needlessly, though he finally relinquished his hold on his daughter.

“They don’t have phones,” Persephone reminded him as she straightened her jacket. “Like, at all.”

“Ridiculous,” the man grumbled, muttering to himself about outdated schools for a solid minute before speaking again. “You’ll write?”

“I’ll always write,” she gave her father one final, lingering hug before walking with her mother through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾. Without looking Persephone knew her father was waving in a ridiculously exaggerated manner that would no doubt earn him a talk about subtlety and secrecy….again.

Once on the proper platform her mother took a moment to double check the luggage before it was left to be loaded onto the train. Persephone fidgeted anxiously to board the train. Her new wand was strange and different, but could easily be some sort of fluke. Things were back on track for how she remembered. Maybe it was cheating to know the outcome of things and the universe was trying to play a clean hand, so to speak, but Persephone liked to feel prepared for the coming….everything.

 “Oh, Percy, wait a moment,” Prospertine called just before her daughter climbed aboard the train and pulling her from her thoughts. Persephone blinked in confusion but dutifully returned to her mother’s side. Prospertine tucked her daughter’s long hair behind an ear and carefully pinned to it  a small group of clovers she had produced from her coat pocket. The vibrant green of the plant contrasted nicely with the girl’s mahogany hair. “For luck.”

Persephone gently touched the clover before surging forward to hug her mother. “I’m going to miss you.”

“You won’t have time to miss me,” Prospertine insisted gently, returning the embrace before turning her daughter back towards the Hogwarts Express. “Go on now. Be great.”

 With one last smile and wave to her mother Persephone stepped aboard the train that would take her to the only other place she had considered home.

As usual the Hogwarts Express was crowded. The many students choosing to mill about in the hallways instead of finding seats made it seem even more so. As she attempted to squeeze her way through the throng of people Persephone was thankful she wasn’t claustrophobic.

Still, even if she wasn’t claustrophobic it was obnoxious and uncomfortable so the next compartment she came to Persephone opened the door (with perhaps more force than was needed) and slipped inside. The girl turned, closing the door as soon as she had passed through the doorway and sighed in relief. Free of the throng of students using the hallways for a meet-and-greet Persephone took a moment to get her bearings.

A few students were scattered towards either end of the compartment, already embroiled in conversations amongst themselves. If she squinted Persephone thought she could see the bright red hair of Lily Evans, but it could have been anyone. The only person unoccupied was another First Year; a boy with dark hair, slumped in his seat and staring out the window at the passing countryside.

Persephone nodded to herself; she had a pocket full of sweets and the lucky clover from her mother. It was time to go about making friends.

“Hello,” she began as she moved from the doorway to the boy at the window. “My name is Persephone Weaver. Do you mind if I sit here, too?”

_Oh_ . It wasn’t until he turned to face her that Persephone realized she knew this boy. Or, at least, she knew the man he would become. Slytherin, Dark Arts enthusiast, murderer, Death Eater. Wilhelm Mulciber. _Oh no_.

  _‘This is fine,’_ the girl thought, grasping at the vague straws of distant hope. _‘He’s eleven. He can’t be that bad.’_

“Weaver?” Mulciber repeated, something between a smirk and a sneer curling across his lips. Any brief hope Persephone had of him being less terrible as a child evaporated even before he continued to speak. “I heard Alaric Weaver ran away like a coward when his only child was a disgrace without magic. But he couldn’t handle the shame of siring a Squib and took his own life. Like a _Muggle_. Unworthy of even dying like a wizard, not that he was one after that. You that abomination’s kid? How’d you even get on this train? I’ll bet you can’t even-”

Persephone’s fist clenched, anger hot and strong. A sudden flare as bright as a star. She didn’t even have a chance to consider her actions; her arm lashed out, sending her fist arching through the air in one quick movement. Fist connected with face giving a sound that seemed much more impressive than the result. In her mind Persephone had imagined sending the boy reeling, knocking him over onto the floor for his words. Mulciber had barely gone two steps backwards, more surprised than in pain.

‘ _Damn my tiny eleven year old arms_ ,’ the redhead lemented as Mulciber recovered quickly, only a red spot and his growing anger for her trouble.

“You-” Mulciber snarled-- literally snarled, baring his teeth as if his body instinctively knew the monster he would become later in life. He seemed to loom over her as he stood, too tall for his eleven year old body. “You _little_ -”

Persephone’s mouth went dry. She thought of her wand, unfamiliar and in the pocket of her robes -- robes she had yet to wear. _Stupid, stupid! Never leave yourself unarmed!_ She thought of lashing out, of kicking him and running from the compartment. She thought of --

The door to the train compartment slid open and the girl’s heart leapt into her throat. A distant part of her mind screamed about reinforcements but what stepped through the door was instead an older boy. A Ravenclaw that Persephone didn’t recognize but there was a shiny, polished Prefect badge pinned to his chest. The Prefect stopped in the doorway, not even two steps inside as his eyes settled on the scene before him: Mulciber radiating rage, fingers curled into claws as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to reach for his wand or physically grab the girl before him and the girl’s wide, wild eyed look silently pleading.

The Prefect’s eyes narrowed as he lifted a hand to point at Mulciber. “You, First Year. With me.”

Mulciber made no move to step away until the Ravenclaw went to reach for his wand. The would-be Death Eater turned away with another concerning growl and a very potent glare as he was lead from the compartment. Persephone allowed herself to breathe ad the door slid shut, resting a hand over her heart. There would be no avoiding Mulciber’s eventual retribution. She would have to work on her arm strength.

Crisis temporarily avoided, Persephone dropped into Mulciber’s now abandoned seat. The sunlight from the window had warmed the seat comfortably, enough that if she trusted to be so defenseless and open she could nap. But the sunlight was relaxing, helping to soothe her pounding heart and screaming nerves. 

‘ _I just punched a child,_ ’ Persephone realized as her pounding heartbeat began to settle. ‘ _A child who was likely just parroting the rhetoric he’s grown up hearing. He doesn’t know any better._ ’

Then she remembered the joy in his eyes as he recognized her surname, the excitement at being able to tear someone down.

_‘I refuse to feel guilty,’_ the girl decided, stretching her arms above her head before sinking down against the sun-warmed leather and twisting around to watch the countryside stream past the window. Though if the clovers did contain any luck in them Persephone was almost certain she had just used it up.

To the credit of either the clover or the Prefect, Mulciber didn’t return for the rest of the train ride. Even still, Persephone took the first opportunity she had to locate her trunk and slip on her black school robes. With her wand tucked safely into an inside pocket she felt more prepared for trouble.

Trouble, thankfully, did not find her for the rest of the train ride. She’d had a lunch of cauldron cakes and chocolate and had even managed to conjure herself up some tea when no one was looking. But now, as Persephone stepped out into the cool September evening, she decided she was quite ready for some real, non-sweets food.

“First Years!” A loud, gruff voice called. “First Years, with me!”

Persephone smiled, though a slow crawl across the lake in the growing darkness was largely unappealing; as unappealing as it was unavoidable but there was just something comforting about the Groundskeeper. Even if they had never been close in her last go-around he seemed to be a friendly sort and, if she remembered correctly, he had an impressive vegetable garden. The redhead made her way through the crowd, slow going with the throngs of older students eager to find a good carriage and be on their way.

Waiting was the worst part, all huddled up with the other First Years as the sky grew darker. The scattered conversations had time to turn into complaining before they were all bundled into boats to begin the slow crawl across the lake. It was beautiful, Persephone thought, even with the chill of the night. The lake water was as smooth and dark as the sky overhead, dappled with the reflection of stars. In the distance the castle loomed, a darker silhouette against the black night sky with brighter blazing stars for windows.

Then the little boats passed through the ivy curtain and into the tunnel under the castle and the sight was gone. Excited murmuring only grew as the eleven year olds were herded from the boats and along the underground docks, footsteps echoing off the damp walls and seeming to multiply their number tenfold. Up the cold stone staircase to the large wooden door separating them from the castle proper. Here they were passed from the care of the groundskeeper into the watchful eye of McGonagall and lead into a small side room off the Great Hall to await the start of the Sorting Ceremony.

The jabbering started nearly the same instant the door shut and the large group of eleven year olds were briefly left to their own devices. Multiple conversations starting at once in a low rumble of noise that could only graciously be called whispering.

“What House do you think you’ll be in?”

“What if it’s like gym class and the other students pick who they want in their house and _no one picks me?!_ ”

“What’s a gym class?”

“I heard-”

“-Hufflepuff is so-

“- a test in front of everyone drilling you on the history of magic!”

Even the Pureblood children, who no doubt knew what the Sorting was, seemed to be taking joy in exciting the other First Years with increasingly wild rumors. Persephone closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It was difficult not to let the jittery excitement and nerves get to her, even though she knew where she would end up. If she was lucky she might even be able to claim her favorite chair by the fire for an hour before bed.

“First Years,” Professor McGonagall had returned, startling those closest to the door and pulling Persephone from her fantasy of after dinner. “It’s time.”

Persephone knew what the Great Hall looked like outside the little side room. She had always known, this time around, and had spent summer afternoons dreaming of it. Of the changing ceiling and the floating candles, lightly scented on holidays. It was comforting and familiar, just as much as the kitchen in her own home. Persephone thought she was prepared to see it again.

She was wrong.

The heavy wooden doors opened without even the faintest squeal of the hinges, revealing the Great Hall to the gathered first years. The ceiling was a deep navy swath, dotted with multiple stars, wispy dark clouds moving between the barely seen beams. The floating candles only added to the illusion, creating unknown constellations. Banners for each House ung above their appropriate tables, colors deep and eye catching.

Tears burned in Persephone’s eyes. It felt like stepping through the doorway into home after a long absence. 

The throng of First Years shuffled forward, knocking the girl from her reverie as the jostled together, caught between looking around and mumbling their fears. Eventually the group of nervous eleven year olds were wrangled into something of an orderly line as the stool containing the Sorting Hat was brought on stage. Her attention wandered again as the Sorting Hat began it’s introduction to the students, brown eyes searching the other children for familiar faces. With everyone grouped together so closely they all seemed to become a mass of black robes and unclear faces.

“Black, Sirius!”

Persephone’s attention snapped back to the stage as the boy stepped forward with all the swagger an eleven year old could muster. (Which, apparently, was quite a bit.) He took a seat on the stool, head practically disappearing under the too-large hat. That crooked, confident grin of his was still visible though, and if his knees weren’t shaking she might have even believed it was real.

A lifetime ago she had counted him a friend, though she had never managed to permeate the walls of his main friend group. Close enough a friend to have spent that cold Halloween in quiet mourning, yet far enough on the fringes that it had never felt right contacting the one remainder of their little quartet after Sirius had snapped and been arrested.

There were plenty of things she wanted to do differently this time around.

“Gryffindor!” the Hat proclaimed and a weird air settled over the Great Hall. Scattered murmurs from those familiar with the Black legacy, and if Persephone squinted she could see strained looks from his cousins across the hall at the Slytherin table. Sirius on the other hand whooped loudly and practically tossed the Sorting Hat into the air as he hopped down from the stool. Gryffindor table had recovered by then, clapping and greeting their new member with only mild hesitance.

 The list moved on and the Great Hall settled back into the routine with relative ease, save for scattered mutterings. The names continued down the alphabet, listing people Persephone had forgotten about or only recognized in passing or had forgotten about.

“Meadowes, Dorcas!”

Victims of war. ( _And what had she done_ , Persephone wondered still, _to have earned Voldemort’s personal attention_?)

“Pettigrew, Peter!”

People who would die.

“Potter, James!”

 People who never really got to live.

On and on until the end of the alphabet finally drew near just as Persephone was beginning to grow impatient and cranky. She had dwelled on the past — future for nearly the entire list, feeling the weight of a war still years away, but now she was hungry and her feet were beginning to ache. The girl shifted on her feet, earning an uncomfortable pop from one of her ankles, and cursed her last name for starting with a letter on the tail end of the alphabet. At the very least she could have been seated by now if her surname was nearly anything else.

“Weaver, Persephone!”

It took a physical effort not to groan in relief as she stepped forward. Except for two other students -- Yaxley and Zabini were the only possible names left-- Persephone had been the only one remaining. It was unnerving, like being picked last in Muggle schoolyard games even if there was nothing to be done about her surname. Well, nothing that was possible at eleven at any rate and even if it could it was far too late to matter now.

Though the Great Hall wasn’t any quieter than when the Sorting began Persephone was almost certain her footsteps echoed as she made the short walk to the stage; to Professor McGonagall and the Sorting Hat. She couldn’t even pretend to exude the pomp and swagger that Sirius had but her knees didn’t shake as she took a seat on the stool. 

In the instant before the Sorting Hat covered her head Persephone reached up to touch the clovers pinned in her hair.

_For luck_ , the memory of her mother’s voice reminded her. Persephone didn’t know if she needed luck when she knew the outcome of her Sorting but one should never turn away a bit of extra luck. If any still remained in the little plants after the train ride.

The Sorting Hat said nothing, it hadn’t before. But she fought the urge to fidget as time seemed to tick by. Thoughts began to swirl in her head as she sat there, feeling hot and watched. Did it know what she knew? Would Dumbledore swoop in and spirit her away to find out the fate of the Wizarding World? Maybe the Hat thought her insane and she would be shut in St. Mungos. Persephone bit at her bottom lip, wanting to explain but having no answers herself. Then--

“Slytherin!”

Persephone went stiff on the stool. That couldn’t be right. She must have heard wrong, had to have heard wrong. She wasn’t a snake, she was a lion. She wore red and was brave and-

But as the Sorting Hat was removed from her head Persephone could see the emerald green and coiled snake crest had already settled onto her school robes. It felt as if her entire world shifted out from under her. If it wasn’t for her fingers still closed around the edge of the stool Persephone wouldn’t be sure that she wasn’t physically on the floor. Slowly, not trusting her feet beneath her, she slid from the stool. When her feet held her weight and her knees didn’t buckle Persephone moved to the green shrouded table on reflex alone.

To their credit the Slytherin table clapped politely, as they had for everyone that became a member of the table. The exception, of course, was Mulciber who made a point to catch Persephone’s eye and crack his knuckles; and Severus Snape, who at this point in time couldn’t be bothered to do much of anything that didn’t pertain to Lily Evans. Persephone fought the urge to roll her eyes. She refused to be intimidated by the likes of _Wilhelm Mulciber_ \-- not while he was eleven.

The food was a welcome distraction. It didn’t matter what table you sat at, the sight and smell of the Welcome Feast alone was enough to push your worries back to later hours. Persephone inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment and letting the scents and sounds wash over her. She could be anywhere, with cutlery clattering against dishes and students filling their plates. Disappointment settled bitterly on her tongue as she opened her eyes and found herself still surrounded by green. With a quiet sigh Persephone began to fill her plate.

 “Not where you expected to be?”

 There was no open hostility to the question but still Persephone’s hand tightened around her fork. But when she turned to face the speaker she found not distain or judgement but honest curiosity in those blue, blue eyes.

“It’s alright,” the speaker continued-- a girl Persephone didn’t recognize on sight. Her long hair was the tawny color of a fawn, the front cut to frame her round face and tied with an Alice bow as green as the House emblem and, yes, delicate silver ear cuffs coiled like snakes and much too mature for an eleven year old. There was a small beauty mark under her left eye and she looked rather much like a porcelain doll; if porcelain could have the remains of a summer tan and the last lingering blush of wind burn. A summer by the sea perhaps? “Everyone has ideas of where they’ll be before the Sorting. Few are ever truly correct.”

Persephone blinked, surprise loosening her hold on the cutlery. Those were not words she had expected to hear at the hoity Pure Blood table. “So you say but you seem awfully prepared for a school life in green.”

The girl smiled, a glint of something Persephone couldn’t place flashing through her eyes. From a pocket of her robes she produced three more ribbons: a deep blue, a sunny yellow, and a striking red. “Mother is nothing if not prepared.”

“And the snakes?” the redhead asked, curious, gesturing to her own ears.

The brunette hummed as if to say ‘what can you do?’, “The Yaxley family has had quite a few Slytherins. I suppose Father was simply...aiming to tip the scales?”

Persephone’s brown eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the other girl’s face. “Was that pun intentional?”

The Yaxley girl blinked owlishly before placing a hand to her mouth and giggling. “If I say yes would that make me clever or obnoxious.”

“It would make you a liar,” Persephone responded without any venom. “No one who intentionally makes a terrible pun reacts with simple giggling.”

“I suppose,” the girl agreed easily, smoothing the napkin on her lap. “Oh, but where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. Io Yaxley.”

Persephone perked slightly as the brunette said her name. She had almost forgotten of the Wizarding tendency for ‘outlandish’ and ‘extraordinary’ names. After a childhood of teasing in muggle schools it was nice to hear a bit of mythology. “Persephone Weaver." 

“Weaver?” Io repeated. Something clicked in the girl’s mind as she gasped softly, turning to glance around the long table before leaning closer and whispering conspiratorially. “As in _Alaric Weaver_?”

Persephone’s back straightened, feeling her muscles tighten beneath the gentle weight of her uniform and temper sizzling somewhere inside of her. She should have known. Should have known when Mulciber threw her grandfather’s name at her like a curse. Everyone loved gossip and the upper echelon of Wizarding high society were no exception.

Io’s hands surged forward, clasping one of Persephone’s between them. “Was it terrible, growing up without magic? Were you forced to go to one of those muggle schools? I heard they don’t learn anything important. Oh no, will you be ready for classes tomorrow?”

There was curiosity and pity in her blue eyes but she lacked the disgust and disdain Mulciber had shown earlier. Persephone could deal with pity. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, putting on a smile. “And it wasn’t terrible, not really. Just different.”

Io blinked owlishly, all wide eyes and open confusion. “But-”

Persephone took her hand back, smoothing her fingers across her completely unrumpled napkin. “There’s plenty of magic that doesn’t require wandwork, just knowledge and access to magical ingredients. And perhaps potion making isn’t good on the crockpot itself but it worked well enough. And-” 

The Yaxley girl jolted as if hit with an electric shock, leaning forward to hold her hands up to the other girl’s mouth; as if wanting to silence Persephone but not wanting to overstep her bounds. “Shh, shh, shh! That’s _dangerous talk_. Even here Pureblood status is very important.” 

The redhead looked away from the other girl, eyes glancing around the House table and Slytherins surrounding them. Food had proved a notable distraction, the closest people more interested in idle gossip and dinner than the talk of two eleven year old girls. Down the table Mulciber had the look of someone trying to talk shit but Lucius Malfoy, with his shiny Prefect badge and impeccable table manners, showed no indication that he was even listening.

Persephone’s eyes flicked back to the still worried Io and she nodded.

Io visibly relaxed, hands moving to rest on her chest as she sighed. “Oh, Sephie, I know you don’t know the rules yet but it’s really not as bad as everyone says. You just have to learn to choose your battles.” 

_‘I choose all of them,’_ Persephone thought bitterly. But Io was right, it was too early to stir the pot. She was _eleven_ and she needed to remember that. Instead she asked, “Sephie?”

“Yes. You don’t mind, do you? I’m hoping to be friends.” Io smiled like the sun and Persephone was overwhelmed with the feeling of how unfair it was that this girl would be mired in such darkness.

 The redhead returned the smile, spearing her near-forgotten dinner with her fork. “I think I’d like that.”

Dinner continued in a pleasant way, with Io and Persephone making small talk. Persephone briefly explained what a crockpot was in hushed tones, they discussed home gardens. The Yaxley estate apparently housed an extensive poison garden that was as beautiful as it was deadly and Persephone would have loved to see it in person.

Eventually Lucius Malfoy stood and clapped his hands twice to gain the attention of the table. The movement crisp and the sound loud enough to be heard over the general din of the Great Hall. A practiced gesture. “First Years, it’s time to retire for the night. Follow me, orderly fashion now.”

The Slytherin Common Room was located in the Hogwarts dungeons. It was something that had always felt off to Persephone, even in her time in red and gold. Why house children in or around the dungeon (and for that matter why was there even a dungeon in a school)? Surely Salazar Slytherin could have built a tower, or a vault if he was so set on underground. Was he that attached to his questionable aesthetics? Dungeons hardly said _regal_ or _high class_.

What if it was cold? Or damp? Wasn’t it supposed to be _under the lake_? That sounded positively miserable in fall and winter. Maybe that was why all the Slytherins she’d ever met in the time before were irritable and grumpy.

The Slytherin Common Room was, in fact, cold but not in the way Persephone had been fearing. To be more accurate it was impersonal, with the seating spaced to provide distance between the occupants. The ambient lighting, provided by gently glowing lanterns suspended from the ceiling by chains, was a nice touch even if it did cast everything in a green glow. The furniture was all dark wood and deep green velvet cushions. She could hear the waves against the large windows looking out into the lake and the sight must have been absolutely gorgeous when the sunlight filtered down through the water. A polished silver tea set rested on one of the tables by the crackling fire. There were several tall bookcases, carved with the same snake motif as the mantle. At least one contained a bright white skull on the shelf, which Persephone could only chalk up to _aesthetic_.

“I can work with this,” she decided, fears of cold and damp nights largely dismissed.

Io giggled behind a hand. “What would you do if you couldn’t?”

“Redecorate?”

“Do you think that’s an option?” Io glanced around the room before whispering in the redhead’s ear. “If we’re doing green, we could do with some variation in the shade and I just don’t understand the skulls.”

“I’m sure it looks less gloomy in the daylight,” Persephone offered, even if she didn’t quite believe it herself.


End file.
